


The Professor's Predicament

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Cuddling & Snuggling, Love, M/M, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:15:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty wakes up from an erotic dream in a bit of a predicament, one which he requires Moran's assistance to get him out of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Professor's Predicament

   Moriarty wakes up achingly hard, which would probably be the usual state of affairs were he Moran but to him it is a much rarer experience, and not one he welcomes either. He can remember nothing of his dreams of the previous night save for the lingering, powerful sense that they were undeniably erotic, something else that is unusual for him.

   Well, he thinks, lying there on his back beside the still sleeping colonel, no matter. This… _inconvenience_ will go away shortly, it always does. He lies there in the dark and tries to think of nothing at all.

    Alas, it does not go away shortly. If anything it becomes even more uncomfortable, which leaves him with the options of getting out of bed to go and relieve himself (a tedious prospect even at the best of times, and early morning on a cold day is hardly the best of times) or waking Moran up to assist him.

    “Sebastian.” He prods Moran lightly in the shoulder, achieving a grunt from him. “Wake up.”

    “What?” Moran comes back to consciousness quickly enough, used as he is to having to be fully alert and prepared for almost anything within moments of being woken, but that doesn’t mean he has to be happy about being disturbed. Within another moment or two though it occurs to him that if the professor has woken him while it is still so dark outside then perhaps something is very wrong. “What’s the matter?” he asks, rolling onto his back and glancing at Moriarty.

    “This.” Moriarty clasps Moran’s hand and guides it down so that Moran can feel the source of his vexation through the professor’s nightshirt. “ _This_ is the matter.”

    Moran laughs sharply. “That’s all? I thought it was gonna be a matter of life or death, fucking Christ!” He pushes his sleep-tousled hair back off his forehead whilst still chuckling.

    “Please do not mock me, Moran. This state of tumescence is unwelcome and really rather painful and furthermore…” He bites his lower lip.

    “Furthermore what?”

    “It will not go away.”

    “Hmm, well.” Moran considers matters for a moment. “What the hell were you dreaming about to get in that state?”

    “I have no recollection.” Moriarty looks away now, seeming slightly embarrassed about his own body’s urges, ones which do not always go the way he would wish them to go. To someone like Moran this would not matter so much but to a man like Moriarty, who likes things to be precisely controlled, it is most alarming.

    Seeing this, or perhaps sensing his lover’s genuine physical discomfort, Moran tries to keep some of the amusement out of his voice now. He slides over in the bed to half-straddle Moriarty, slipping one leg over him. “It’s all right,” he says. “Professor, it’s all right.” He cups Moriarty’s face in his hand, gently turning his head so that they are face to face. In the near-darkness of the room their noses briefly bump together before Moran’s mouth meets Moriarty's, then he kisses him gently on the lips, holding back from a more intense kiss in order to allow the professor to take the lead. Moran’s natural instinct with Moriarty is to submit to him and though he can and does take charge of him from time to time and is unique in that he has had Moriarty completely at his mercy during some of their games, he senses that in this situation Moriarty is uncomfortable enough, feeling as he does that he is already in thrall to his own biological urges. Having Moran take full control here then would be most unwelcome to the professor and so the colonel’s hesitancy is not born of nervousness but of his willingness to hand the reins over to Moriarty, to allow the professor a second or two to decide what he wants to do and to take charge of his own desires and Moran both. Thus it is Moriarty who dips his tongue between Moran’s lips first and who now fists his hand in Moran’s hair to tug him into a rougher kiss.

    Moriarty slides his other hand down over Moran’s naked body, down his forearm and skating over his hip, down his thigh, before pulling him over so that Moran is fully atop him. Moran’s submission is not entirely passive and as they kiss more fiercely now he begins to rut against the professor, enabling him to feel how hard Moran too is now becoming. Moriarty allows this for only a few moments though before flipping Moran over, getting him on his back and putting his thigh between Moran’s. It is always delightful to see Moran desperate and helpless with arousal, and to have him becoming so excited so rapidly too makes Moriarty simply feel better about his own body’s urges – more in control of them when he, in his desire, is able to coax Moran into a similar physical state.

    “Professor,” Moran says, his voice turning husky with arousal and need.

    Moriarty, still using his tight grip in Moran’s hair, forces his head back, exposing Moran’s throat, and he kisses him there, under his jaw and over the spot where Moran’s pulse races now. “Tell me what you want,” he demands, his voice low, his mouth close to Moran’s ear.

    “You, sir,” Moran answers, without thinking. “I want-” His breath hitches as Moriarty carefully but firmly squeezes his testicles. “ _You._ ”

    “Please be more specific, Colonel.”

   “I want you inside me.” Moran’s breath is coming shorter and sharper and Moriarty has no doubt that any dilation of his companion’s pupils is not only because of the light levels of the room.

    “Not specific enough, my boy, not at all,” he says, and nips at Moran’s earlobe, gently biting at it, knowing how well Moran responds to a little pain mingled in with his pleasure.

    Moran clutches onto the professor as the nip seems to cut straight down to his groin, making his prick twitch in arousal and anticipation, and he lets out a shuddering gasp before finally managing to say, “Please, sir, I want… I want your cock inside me. Please.”

    “Then you shall have it, my pet.” Moriarty finds the vial of oil kept in a drawer in the nightstand more by feel and recollection than by sight. He does not trouble to remove his nightshirt, only to draw it up past his waist. Autumn has brought with it the cooler temperatures and though the room is not bitterly cold yet, still there is a chill in the air. Moriarty would prefer therefore to remain at least partially covered, and besides, it always seems to suggest a further measure of his control over Moran during their coupling when he retains at least some clothing while Moran is stark naked.

     He looks down at the colonel in the gloom, so obviously flushed and eager, who writhes under him desperately as he prepares him with the oil. Moriarty cannot suppress a wry smile at his lover’s lasciviousness, but there is much fondness in that smile. Moran’s sexual stamina can be occasionally irksome but it may also be amusing and even endearing, particularly when he knows that Moran submits to him in a way he does not submit to any other.

    He is so hard himself that even smearing the oil lightly over his length makes him emit a slightly pained groan and though Moran knows better than to question aloud if Moriarty is all right, his concern for the professor is always at the fore, and it shows now in the way he looks up at Moriarty. He does not protest either at the slight discomfort as Moriarty quickly and roughly spreads his legs, bending his right leg at the knee and shoving it up to open Moran up. Moran can feel the professor trembling with the exertion, with the effort of trying to keep his control for a little longer now, and still he says nothing but he wraps his leg half around the professor’s back, helping him out just a little, directing him into a better position. Moriarty guides himself into Moran initially with his hand, and then, as he eases his length fully inside his lover, he lets out a long shaky breath that he had not even realised he was holding.

    Moran feels quite delicious inside, perfectly warm, perfectly tight, tense but in a manner that suggests he is keyed up and close to orgasm rather than hinting at any reluctance on his part. Indeed he is relaxed enough to make entering him so beautifully easy. At times like this Moriarty cannot always keep the more sentimental thoughts at bay and he feels a sudden overwhelming sense of gratitude towards his lover. Never has he encountered someone so strong, so self-assured, but so willing, so _eager_ to please him. There are certainly times when he finds it entertaining to delay or even to entirely deny Moran his release, but now he wants to reward Moran, to provide him with as much pleasure as he can. Although it is becoming increasingly difficult to think coherently and not simply to act on instinct, as he takes Moran he tries to angle his thrusts so as to stimulate him internally in a way which has the colonel cursing and digging his fingers tightly into Moriarty’s back.

    “Sebastian,” Moriarty whispers into Moran’s ear, pressed low and tight against him, with both of Moran’s legs drawn up and wrapped around him now, the pair curled into this tightest and most carnal of embraces. “My dearest Sebastian.” When he thrusts into him it is _divine_ , utterly divine, and seemingly, going by those curses and the ragged groans that he draws from Moran’s throat, the colonel would be inclined to agree with him.

    Neither of them is going to last long, that much is evident, with Moriarty driving steadily, even desperately, into Moran and Moran bucking against him, his prick stiff and hot between their bodies. Moriarty’s face is buried against the side of Moran’s head still but as orgasm nears he is seized by an impulse to kiss him once more, with greater passion, greater feeling, greater violence, even, a kiss which Moran eagerly accepts and returns.

    It is Moran who finishes first, but only by seconds, when Moriarty reaches between them and gives Moran’s cock a long, rough stroke which has him arching off the bed, clenching tightly around Moriarty’s length as he comes with a cry that is nearly soundless anyway and further smothered by Moriarty’s mouth pressed tightly over his. Moran’s release spills between them, a concern for later though, as the unwitting tensing of Moran’s body tips Moriarty very firmly over the edge himself. He goes very still and is unable to hold back a strangled cry against Moran’s throat as he spends into him, overwhelmed with such an incredible sense of relief that he forgets himself entirely for some moments.

    He comes to his senses a few seconds later. He is on his side now facing Moran and the colonel is gently stroking his back through his nightshirt.

    “It’s all right, sir,” Moran is saying, soothing him in a way that Moriarty should find rather demeaning perhaps, yet it _is_ comforting and reassuring too that Moran has still chosen to address him as ‘sir’ here. It is something else that he feels gratitude for – that when Moran sees him vulnerable like this he still does not forget his place; that he seeks to ensure that Moriarty feels safe and sufficiently in control instead of trying to exploit his momentary weaknesses.

    Moriarty feels shaky and breathless and he can think of nothing to say for now, or perhaps it is more that he does not trust himself not to blurt out something far too soppy, so he remains quiet. Their foreheads are very nearly touching and when Moran brushes his lips over Moriarty’s again, still hesitant in requesting another kiss, Moriarty obliges him in this. Moran has certainly earned that much from him.

   “I suppose,” he says at last, “we should think about getting up.”

   “Still early yet.” As if to prove his point, Moran yawns loudly.

   “Well we cannot lie here like this, covered in… _that_.” Moriarty gestures downwards, at one of the rather more distasteful elements of sexual congress.

   “I’ll get something, clean us up.” Moran slides out from under the covers and pads away, still stark naked, through the gloom. He returns in less than a minute with a damp cloth and a clean towel.  The cloth is cold and Moriarty shivers when it touches his skin as Moran wipes away the worst signs of their union. “There,” Moran says, carefully patting the professor’s stomach dry with the towel. “Clean enough to eat off.” He flashes Moriarty a grin.

     Moriarty regards Moran with a raised eyebrow as he pulls his nightgown back down. Perhaps it is a mere figure of speech or perhaps Moran, with his apparent fondness for using the professor’s stomach as a pillow from time to time, is obliquely expressing some other strange yearning of his. Moriarty can never quite be sure with him for Moran is a man who continues to surprise him even years into their acquaintance. Well no matter, he can find that out later.

    “Come back to bed,” he says.

    “Just a second.” Moran finishes wiping himself down before climbing back into the bed beside the professor, who flinches as Moran’s now rather icy foot touches his.

    “Why do you never put slippers on?” he grumbles, even as he draws Moran closer. “Or your dressing gown? One day, Moran, you are going to give the servants a dreadful shock.”

    “Not sure it’d be so dreadful for ‘em.” Moran snuggles in more tightly against Moriarty’s shoulder. “I reckon they’d be thrilled to see such a magnificent specimen as my humble self in all his glory, though I s’pose it’s true the size of my manhood _can_ come as a bit of shock to those with a weak constitution.”

    Moriarty gives a faint snort of laughter. “Ah yes, Sebastian, truly you are humble,” he says wryly, letting his eyes slip closed. “That must be one of the factors that first drew me to you, your meekness, your modesty, your truly self-effacing nature.”

    “Now I know you’re just jealous, sir – jealous that you have not been so blessed as I have been in the trouser department.” Moran, lying with his head upon Moriarty’s chest, flicks his gaze up to meet Moriarty’s as the professor briefly opens one eye to scrutinise him. Moran’s eyes glimmer with sly amusement. Only he, they both know, would dare to tease Moriarty in such a manner and upon such a topic.

    Moriarty closes his eye again. “I am sure I have no need of any further _blessing_ in that region, Moran, for I have certainly never heard you complaining about its size.”

    Moran laughs as he settles his head back down. “Very true, Professor, I have no complaints.”

    “In that case, go back to sleep.” Moriarty slides his hand beneath the covers and seeks out the colonel’s hand, threading his fingers through Moran’s and letting their hands settle gently together upon his abdomen. “I estimate that we have another hour before we must think about rising.”

    “Another hour, at least,” Moran concurs, his voice softened by tiredness.

    “I’m sorry I woke you.”

    “Don’t matter, you can wake me for that…” Moran yawns again. “…any time you like.”

    “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  “Mm,” Moran says, which will turn out to be the last thing he is to say for a little over two hours as he dozes once more, his hand still clasped in the professor’s all the while.

      _Dear, faithful Sebastian_ , thinks Moriarty as he snuggles into his pillow, feeling very pleasantly sated now, and within no more than a minute or two he has joined his companion in sleep.


End file.
